


the cost of building bridges

by novoaa1



Series: find you again [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (not any of the main characters), Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Crocs, CyberTek, Doctor Who References, Extremis (Marvel), Gen, Guest House (Marvel), Guns, Hacking, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knives, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, New York City, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Project Centipede (Marvel), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Team, Recovered Memories, Red Room (Marvel), Roxxon Corporation, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Smoking, Swearing, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Underage Smoking, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, brief non-graphic discussion of suicide, please read the tags, protective Reader, wanda maximoff being adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: On the morning of your second day at the Tower, you rise with a plan—shower, food, research.Oh! And you’ve decided to try a new thing: honesty.Unfortunately, you find out pretty quickly that the more honest you are, the more people insist on getting involved in things they shouldn’t.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Reader, Clint Barton & Wanda Maximoff, James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Tony Stark & Reader, Wanda Maximoff & Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader
Series: find you again [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099409
Comments: 20
Kudos: 135





	the cost of building bridges

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask me why this is so long... i guess i got carried away okay
> 
> this part digs a little bit into some plot points from the mcu and agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. i pretty much explain most of them (the relevant ones, anyhow), so if you haven't seen all of that stuff, don't stress...

The sun’s been up for a solid half-hour by the time you finally close the notebook and rise to your feet. 

Your knees crack as you stand, but that’s nothing new. Your head still throbs like someone took a bat to your skull, but you will not let it hinder you. 

Pain will be compartmentalized. 

Though, it’d probably behoove you to actually get some sleep sooner rather than later.

You wonder if you can get your hands on a pair of cuffs. 

You push the thought aside. That’s a problem for later. 

Right now, you’ve got three priorities: shower, food, then research. Oh, and clothes. You’ve been wearing the same boxer shorts, sweatpants, and long-sleeve shirt for a solid day now. 

You pad into the bathroom, drop the sweats and strip your shirt off with haste.

You leave the door ajar, keen on listening for anything unusual as you do your morning business. 

Paranoid? Sure. 

In your world, you can’t afford to be anything less.

You pause to splash some cold water on your face, then take a good look at your reflection in the gigantic mirror above the sink.

Jesus, you look like shit. 

Your eyes are red, puffy from crying. The gut-punch bruise from a particularly hostile sparring session with Ilya has turned a sickening shade of black beneath your ribcage, its edges splotched with green. 

You poke at it a couple times. Still sore. 

Good. You deserve it. 

You glance down at your left hand, can’t help but take a morbid sort of comfort in the black and purple bruising encircling the wrist. 

It’s familiar. It makes sense. You’re in dire need of more things that make sense.

Lastly, you turn to inspect your back. 

A couple lash marks (courtesy of Chuzhoi) running from between your shoulder blades to criss-cross along your spine. Scabbed-over, already beginning to heal. You doubt you’ll have any scars to show for it. 

Scarring has been rare ever since Ivan and Madame agreed to start you on weekly serum transfusions rather than the monthly ones you’d been receiving up until then. You were young… 8, maybe? 9?

Natalia had broken away from the Red Room some time ago, and they were desperate to compensate for the loss of their most valuable asset. 

It hurt so bad. You’d been in training for years by then, taught to compartmentalize your pain. You’d taken needles under each fingernail without so much as a whimper. That didn’t stop you from screaming and thrashing in the metal restraints as you endured that first treatment so soon after the last. 

You wouldn’t find out until later on that not even Natalia had started her weekly treatments so young. In fact, they hadn’t even been sure you’d survive the repeated transfusions, small and underdeveloped as you were. 

_Assholes_.

With a noiseless sigh, you shake that train of thought. Reliving the past has only ever caused you misery. 

What was that thing Natalia used to say?

_We have what we have when we have it_.

Yeah. Sounds about right. 

A quick tug frees your hair from the sloppy-as-hell bun you’ve had it in since yesterday. 

You drop your boxer shorts, let them pool around your ankles before stepping out and kicking them over into a crumpled pile with the rest of your clothes. 

You ease open the shower door—glass, perfectly polished. You’re careful not to smudge it with your ink-stained hands. 

You crank up both knobs, flinch when cold water hits your bare skin. Goosebumps form all up and down your arms. 

Fortunately, the water doesn’t stay cold for long. 

In less than a minute, it’s suitably warm. The water stings as it sluices between your shoulder blades, down your back, but you hardly mind. This is already leagues better than the freezing five-minute showers you were afforded back in Iskitim. 

Bit by bit, you turn the water temperature up—hotter, hotter… hotter. Steam rises into the air, heat stings your skin, and you’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be stuck in the cold… Almost. 

You could stay here forever, you think. 

You won’t, of course. You’ve never been one for self-indulgence. You know better. 

But here, now… Well. You have nowhere to be. No one to kill, no one actively trying to kill you. 

Five more minutes couldn’t hurt…

— —

10 minutes later, you smell like spearmint body wash, coconut-scented shampoo, and the generic deodorant you found beneath the sink. 

You wring out your hair, rub your scalp with a hand towel until it stings. 

A glance at your reflection tells you you’re looking a little better than before… a little less haunted. 

You dress quickly—boxer shorts, sweats, long-sleeve shirt. 

Lastly, you do a sketchy finger-combing of your hair. It stings, and you lose more than a couple strands in the process; but by the end of it, it looks better, and feels better, too. 

You hang your towel, snatch up your notebook and pen, then pad out into the common area. 

Natalia’s already there, curled up on the kitchen isle beside a small stack of clothes, squinting at something on her laptop. 

She looks up as you approach, flashes you a warm grin that makes your cheeks heat. 

For the nth time, you’re glad you’re not nearly pale enough to make it obvious when you blush. 

You have no idea how to talk to her, how to even _look_ at her—not with last night’s meltdown still so fresh on your mind. 

“ _Morning_ ,” she greets. Spanish. 

You tamp down on your discomfort and flash her something that you pray resembles a real smile. “ _Morning_.”

She nods to the stack of clothes beside her. “ _Clothes for you_.”

You’re all too quick to latch onto the proffered normalcy. “ _Yours_ ?”

She shakes her head. “ _Wanda’s. She dropped by while you were showering_.”

You just nod. “ _That’s… nice of her_.”

Natalia hums in agreement, looking far too smug for your comforts. “ _Very nice_.”

You roll your eyes, lean over the kitchen isle and snatch the stack of clothes. “ _Shut up_ ,” you grumble. With a final parting glare, you turn on your heel, intent on traipsing back to your room for a quick change. 

“ _She’s coming up for breakfast in 20_ ,” Natalia calls after you. You can _hear_ the smirk in her voice when she adds, “ _Make sure to wear something pretty_.”

You hold up the middle finger over your shoulder instead of justifying that with a verbal response.

— —

You have to fight a smile as you lay out the clothes— _Wanda’s_ clothes—on the duvet. 

A grey long-sleeve Henley, an oversized Led Zeppelin T-shirt to wear over it. A casual-wear bra—almost sport, but not nearly as restrictive. It’s… comfy. 

A pair of boy-short panties. Those make your face feel hot as you can’t help but imagine _Wanda_ wearing them. You’re quick to shake the thought from your head, feeling like a creep. 

Thin black jogger pants—like sweatpants, except not nearly as heavy. Distantly, you note that this pair has its drawstring. You don’t really know what to make of that.

Last but not least, a pair of fuzzy white socks and a hooded flannel jacket—in case you get cold, presumably. 

A sweet thought, even if you’ve never been one to shy away from the cold. 

She really did think of everything. 

Minutes later, you’re dressed. 

All the clothes (the Henley and joggers especially) are worn and soft, as if they’ve been through many wash cycles. Clearly, these clothes of Wanda’s are very well-loved. 

They smell like her, too. Vanilla, spice… a hint of something indefinable; a scent that’s unique to Wanda and Wanda alone. 

God, you need to pull yourself together. 

You leave the fuzzy socks but slip on the flannel jacket before heading back out. 

Natalia’s in the kitchen, still, though she’s dismounted from the isle and begun fiddling with the knobs on the stove. 

She looks over her shoulder, a smile growing on her lips as she gives you a quick once-over.

“ _Looking good_ ,” she tells you, reaching for a pan and setting it on the burner. 

Your face feels a little warm, but you manage a nod. “ _She really did think of everything_ ,” you say, repeating your earlier thought. 

Natalia hums as she pries open the refrigerator, brandishes a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon.

“ _You like the notebook, then_ ?” she asks, flicking her glance down to...

Right. The notebook in your hands. You’d forgotten you were still holding it. 

It’s a new and unfamiliar thing to you, having… possessions. You fear the moment you let it out of your sight, it’ll disappear. 

Another moment passes in silence before you realize that Natalia’s still waiting on your response. 

“ _Yes_ ,” you answer finally, shooting her a tiny smile. “ _Thank you_.”

She nods, something like understanding flaring in her gaze. “ _How’d you sleep_ ?”

You shrug, making the split decision to go for honesty. “ _I didn’t_.”

A crease forms between her brows. “ _Bad dreams_ ?”

“ _No_ ,” you tell her, fiddling with the hem of Wanda’s tee. “ _Just… didn’t want to_.”

Natalia appraises you carefully for a moment. “ _Anything I can do_ ?”

You bite back a snort. “ _Got a pair of handcuffs_ ?”

As expected, the joke falls short, and Natalia’s expression goes from concerned to decidedly unamused in zero seconds flat. 

There’s no ensuing lecture, though, which you appreciate. 

Instead, she simply moves on. “ _How do you like your eggs_ ?”

— —

All attempts to help Natalia with breakfast are promptly turned down. You settle instead for grabbing a glass of water and making yourself at home on one of the sofas. 

Wanda arrives minutes later in bare feet, tiny cotton shorts, and an oversized Black Sabbath T-shirt. Face devoid of makeup, long hair piled into a messy bun, all silver rings present and accounted for on her slender fingers. 

She’s wearing a necklace, too—a circle-enclosed pentacle on a silver chain.

“Hi,” she greets shyly, looking from the vacant spot next to you on the couch and back again. “Is it alright if I sit?”

“Of course.”

She does, albeit with some hesitance. There’s a hint of pinkish blush coloring her pale cheeks. It’s quite lovely. 

“Thank you for the clothes,” you tell her after a beat of silence. 

She immediately breaks into a bashful grin. “Really? They fit okay?”

You nod, allowing yourself to shoot her a small, lopsided smile. “Yep. I didn’t wear the socks, ‘cause I didn’t want to slip and fall,” you inform her, feeling more than a little sheepish all of a sudden. You clear your throat awkwardly, needing to change the subject. “So, I take it you listen to a lot of rock music, then?” 

Wanda nods, glancing down at her own shirt and giving you a gentle smile. “I didn’t used to,” she explains, a hint of sadness bleeding into her muted tone. “But Pietro always loved it. Especially the older stuff.”

You nod. It makes sense she’d incorporate that into her varied interests as a means of keeping her twin’s memory alive. 

“I was in Bristol some time ago,” you recall. The memory tumbles from your lips with ease. “My cover was a young, rebellious teen. Listened to a lot of rock… Had an Ozzy Osbourne poster in her bedroom.” Wanda watches you intently as you speak, seeming to hang onto every word. “I listened to him quite a lot over those months. He’s… an incredibly talented musician. Pietro had good taste.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the watery smile Wanda gives you is any indication. “I’ve never been to England,” she says thoughtfully. “I imagine it’s quite beautiful.”

You shrug. “It rains a lot. Not much sun.”

Wanda chuckles, like she’s amused. “Yes, I’ve heard that as well.” She traces one of the many rings on her fingers, a faraway look in her eyes. “Perhaps I just like the accents.”

“I remember learning the accents back in Russia,” you say with some measure of fondness, careful to keep any hint of bitterness from your tone. The memory, like most every one in your scattered recollection, holds far more unpleasantness than genuine joy. “They had us watch British movies and episodes from British television shows.”

Wanda eyes you with interest. “What was your favorite?”

“ _Doctor Who_ ,” you tell her. It’s the truth, you think. 

Wanda raises a brow, seeming intrigued. “I’ve never seen it.”

“I only remember ever seeing one or two episodes,” you say, thinking back. “They didn’t want us focusing too much on the plot, getting invested. It was purely for educational purposes.”

“There’s a, um…” Wanda trails off, snapping her fingers. “Oh! The TARDIS, right?”

Her excitement is contagious, and you feel a toothy grin breaking out across your features before you can think better of it. “Yes, a time machine in the form of a blue police box.”

“A time machine,” Wanda repeats, heaving an almost wistful sigh. “Imagine that.”

“Where would you go?”

Wanda eyes you for a moment with a growing smile. “Not ‘where,’” she corrects, almost impish in her glee. “ _When_.”

You think about arguing, telling her that the TARDIS possesses the ability to travel through space as well, not only time (which would render both questions viable), but think better of it. 

Her joy is far too precious for you to spoil. 

“I stand corrected. My deepest apologies, Miss Maximoff,” you amend with theatrical contrition, smiling when it makes her giggle. “ _When_ would you go in the event that a time-traveling spacecraft such as the TARDIS should become accessible unto you purely for recreational purposes?”

“You know what Pietro would call you?” Wanda asks, sidestepping the question altogether. She doesn’t wait for your reply before saying, “A smartass.”

You huff out a choked laugh, surprised and delighted in equal measure. “You wound me,” you proclaim, a hand to your chest in mock hurt. 

“You’ll live, I’m sure,” she counters, her eyes dancing with amusement. 

You smirk, about to make a retort, when Natalia calls, “Breakfast!”

“Saved by the bell,” Wanda teases, getting to her feet as you do the same beside her.

You let your jaw drop, feigning offense. “And _I’m_ the smartass?”

She laughs as you trail after her. It’s music to your ears.

— —

Scrambled eggs and crispy bacon constitutes breakfast. It’s quite good.

Natalia insists on adding ketchup to her eggs, which earns a wince from you and an adorably wrinkled nose from Wanda.

After the meal, Natalia clears the table, putting you on dishes duty with Wanda—you wash, she dries. 

You’ve only just started on the second plate when F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in with an urgent notification. 

“Natasha, you have Mr. Barton on his way up to see you. He appears very agitated—”

“Shit,” Natalia murmurs, thrusting a serving dish into your hands. 

“—but upon being asked about it, he did not seem all that keen to—”

“Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y., I’ll handle it,” Natalia hastily interjects as the elevator doors part and an angry-looking man storms into the room. He’s making a bee-line straight for her. 

“Tash, what the hell?” he exclaims, gesturing wildly about with his hands. “You went to _Russia_ , took in a _stray_ , and made me find out about it from _Steve_ ?!”

Even as he advances on her, you’re already in motion. 

Dropping the plate in the sink, snatching a knife from the block. Hopping the kitchen isle, meeting him halfway with a knife at his throat. 

You think you hear someone call your name, but you ignore it.

The man’s boots squeak on the ground as he pulls up short, turns his narrowed blue-eyed gaze upon you. 

Clint Francis Barton. Codename: Hawkeye. 

Designation: Unfriendly. Threat Assessment: High. 

He’s dressed like an Average Joe from the Midwest—flannel shirt, blue jeans, brown boots; though the practiced ease in his posture betrays his training. 

A brief inspection tells you he’s armed, too, even if he doesn’t look it. A handgun strapped to his calf beneath the jeans; at least one knife in his belt, concealed from sight by the flannel. 

You remember him—the archer. The one originally sent to kill Natalia… the one who made a different call. He and Natalia were friends, once upon a time. From what you understand, they still are. 

You don’t trust your dated intel enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He examines you for a long moment, then turns a droll look upon Natalia. If he’s at all put off by the knife you have currently leveled against his throat, he does well not to show it.

“Let me guess,” he drawls. “This is the kid.”

“Stand down, Y/N,” Natalia calls, approaching the pair of you from the side. “He’s a pain in my ass, but a friend.”

“Thanks, Tash,” Barton shoots back dryly, though there’s an affectionate gleam in his eye that looks to be sincere. 

You lower the blade, tuck it into the waistband of your joggers. You don’t take your eyes off of him. 

“Clint!” Wanda exclaims, sounding happy to see him. You step back neatly to allow her room as she runs directly into Barton’s arms, letting him envelop her in a close hug. 

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs into her hair. “Miss me?” The broad grin on his face and the soft, affectionate note in his voice both appear genuine. 

Your vigilance relaxes a fraction. 

Natalia nudging you draws your focus from Barton and Wanda back to her. 

She’s got her hand held out and a single brow raised. 

“What?” you ask, feigning ignorance. 

She gives you a _look_.

You sigh, taking the knife from your waistband and dropping it into the palm of her waiting hand. 

“Thank you,” she simpers sweetly. 

You don’t roll your eyes, though it’s not for lack of wanting.

— —

“What’s your name, kid?” Barton asks you. 

You’ve all settled on the sofas in the lounge area, the dishes having been successfully cleaned, dried, and put away. Clint and Natalia on one, you and Wanda on the other. 

“I’m not a kid,” you tell him flatly. 

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m getting kind of old,” he answers, appearing unruffled by your terseness. Cool under pressure. An admirable trait. “To me, pretty much anyone under 25 qualifies as a kid.”

You eye him for a moment, before eventually saying, “You don’t shoot like a grandpa.”

The effect is immediate—Natalia’s lips twitch, and Wanda clamps a hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle a giggle. 

Barton allows himself a theatrical jaw drop, giving the impression of distinct dismay. “What ever happened to respecting your elders?” he laments indignantly even as the twinkle in his eye betrays his amusement. 

You shrug. “I paid you a compliment, did I not?”

Barton shoots you a playful glare. “Telling someone they don’t shoot like a grandpa is hardly a compliment.”

Another noncommittal shrug. You’re beginning to enjoy this back-and-forth. “I think there are some gentlemen down at the old folks’ home who would prove otherwise.”

Wanda snorts. 

Barton just squints at you, then turns back to Natalia, who now wears an unapologetic smirk. “Did you absolutely _have_ to choose the cheekiest one?”

Natalia looks from her former partner to you and back again. “Yes.”

“She held a knife to my throat,” he deadpans. His droll tone, combined with the fact that he’s choosing to bring it up so brazenly, both lend credence to the theory that he’s not at all truly bothered. 

Natalia hums pleasantly in agreement. “With impeccable form, too, don’t you agree?”

“Wh—” He turns to Wanda with wide eyes, mouth agape. “Wanda?”

Wanda raises her brows, feigning innocence. “What?”

“A little help?”

“Oh!” Wanda nods, trying (and failing) for a solemn expression. “Yes. I also thought Y/N’s form was very good.”

You bite your lip, fighting a smile as a resounding groan comes from Barton on the other couch.

“Aw,” Natalia says with poorly feigned sympathy, patting his shoulder even as she flashes you a pleased smirk. “You’re okay, buddy.”

“And for the record, I’m not old enough to have grandkids,” Barton remarks, giving you a pointed look. 

He’s making this too easy. “Whatever you say, Gramps.”

— —

After a while, Wanda leaves. Evidently, she has training with Rogers in 15. 

“Have fun,” you tell her, because isn’t that what you’re meant to say?

Wanda just fixes you with a dry look that very much assures you she will not, in fact, be ‘having fun.’ With a feather-light kiss pressed to your cheek and a shy wave, she turns to exit, leaving you shell-shocked in her wake. 

There’s a dumbfounded expression on your face as you reach up, fingers hovering over your own cheek. It tingles where her lips touched your skin.

When you finally come to, Wanda is long gone, while Barton and Natalia watch you from the sofa with identical shit-eating grins. 

Your face might burst into flames if it gets any hotter, but you try for what you hope is a suitably neutral expression. “What?”

“Um—”

Natalia elbows Barton, successfully cutting him off. 

“Nothing,” she answers for the both of them, still wearing that infuriating smirk. “Just… Glad to see you and Wanda are getting along.”

Barton conceals his derisive snort with a round of less-than-convincing coughs. 

You just roll your eyes, turning to Natalia. “Can I go run an errand in the City?”

The smirk fades, if only slightly. “Sure. Where’re you planning on going?”

If you were anyone else, your jaw might be on the floor right now. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Barton seems a little more wary but ultimately suspending judgement as his gaze darts between the two of you. 

You tilt your head, eyeing her thoughtfully. “No ankle monitor?”

Natalia raises a brow. “Would you wear it?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. What do you need in the City?”

“A laptop.”

“For what?”

“Research.”

“On…”

You hesitate, mentally sifting through your languages for one you know that Clint Barton does not. 

“ _I want to find the rest of the Black Rooms_.” Amharic. A fairly common dialect spoken primarily in the northern parts of Ethiopia. You were there in Mek’ele posing as a foreign exchange student at the University for two months on an op. 

Lucky for you, your accent and pronunciation are already poor enough to render it incredibly difficult (if not impossible) for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to attempt a translation. 

What’s more, you know Natalia spent the better part of a year undercover in Bahir Dar. She didn’t necessarily have to learn the language, as her ditzy American persona did not lend itself to such scholarly pursuits, but she’s Natalia. She was damn near fluent by the time she left.

Natalia’s expression doesn’t change even as Barton’s gaze narrows upon you. 

“ _Use mine_ ,” she says in perfect Amharic. “ _We’ll do it together_.”

You’re beginning to dislike this whole ‘honesty’ thing.

You resist the urge to heave a sigh. “ _If they trace the search back here, it would make everyone in the Tower a target_.”

Indignation flares in Natalia’s gaze. “ _I’m not going to let you do this on your own_.”

“ _I’m not asking for permission_.”

“Okay!” Barton exclaims in English, getting to his feet and shooting Natalia a meaningful glance. “I don’t know what language you’re speaking, but I do know an argument when I hear it,” he continues, already heading towards the elevators. 

“I’m gonna go bother Tony, give you guys some privacy.” He stops, turns back around to look between the two of you before settling on Natalia with a vaguely exasperated expression. “Tash? Don’t kill the kid.” Next, his gaze lands on you. “And you? Don’t kill my partner. She’s a pain in my ass, but I’m fond of her. Capisce?”

You don’t justify that with a response. You would never intentionally harm Natalia.

“Go bother Tony, Clint,” she dismisses with a roll of her eyes. 

She waits until Barton is in the elevator and the doors have closed before turning back to you.

“Please sit,” she says in English, nodding towards the other end of the couch. She sounds exhausted.

You do.

“Going after them on your own is a suicide mission,” she asserts. Still English. 

You follow suit. “I didn’t say anything about going after them, did I?”

“No. But that’s the next step, isn’t it?”

“It’s all a hypothetical unless I can pinpoint their exact locations,” you say, neatly sidestepping the question altogether.

Natalia opens her mouth to argue that point further, then seems to think better of it. “You already know where one is, don’t you?” she asks instead. 

You shrug noncommittally. “I have a suspicion.”

“And your plan is to find it, infiltrate it, unearth a paper trail or weak link that’ll lead you to the others.”

You don’t deny it. 

“Do you realize how much faster you could get all this done if you had help?”

“I will not endanger anyone else’s life for a personal vendetta.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Cheapen it,” Natalia clarifies. “If it were simply about revenge, you’d slaughter each of the Madames in their cells.”

“To be clear, that’s never been off the table.”

“This isn’t about getting even,” Natalia says, continuing on as though she didn’t hear. “It’s about saving all the other little girls from suffering the way we suffered.”

“Speaking from experience?”

It’s rhetorical, but she answers it anyhow. “You know I am,” she confirms, her features a mask of determination. “I vowed to burn the Red Rooms to the ground. Every single one. I don’t care that they’re calling them Black Rooms now; it’s the same damn thing.” She pauses, pursing her lips, a troubled look in her eye. “If a single Black Room still stands, my work isn’t done.”

It’s quiet for a beat. Then two. 

“That was a good speech,” you comment eventually. “Very rousing. Though, I thought Captain America typically did those.”

Natalia snorts. “You’re an asshole.”

“A simple ‘Thank you’ would suffice.”

“In your dreams.”

— —

“When you offered your help, you said nothing about involving your team.”

10 minutes of (relative) peace, and already, another argument has begun. Yeah, you should’ve guessed that the whole ‘honesty’ thing would be a fucking crapshoot to begin with. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Natalia chastises you without glancing up from her phone. “It wouldn’t be ‘the whole team.’”

“It would be most of them,” you argue, frustration prickling beneath your skin. 

Natalia sighs and pockets the phone, fixing you with a bland look. “We’d present it to them as a voluntary op. They can say ‘No’ if they want to.”

“First of all, there is no ‘we.’ I haven’t agreed to you joining me.” Natalia rolls her eyes at that. “Second, your teammates have all the subtlety of a full-grown elephant.”

“Considering that we’re including neither Hulk nor Thor here, I think that’s overstating things.” 

You level her with a dour look.

She sighs. “I trust them to have my back— _our_ backs—in the field.”

That’s no small thing for Natalia. You know that as well as she. 

Regardless, that’s not your primary concern. “I know that.”

“Then, what’s holding you back?”

You bite back a sigh. _What the hell_. “I don’t want you going back there. I don’t want Soldat going back there, either.” Cards on the table. Again. 

You make a mental note to never play poker with Natalia. 

“You’re worried they have our leashes.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyhow. “I know Soldat had trigger words. I know they removed them—presumably in Wakanda.” If Natalia’s at all taken aback that you even know of Wakanda’s existence to begin with, she does well not to show it. “But I wouldn’t put it past them to have more than one means of controlling him.”

Natalia falls silent, thinking. 

“And the same goes for you,” you continue on. “If they can flip you, make you compliant again… They can kill everyone. The Avengers, Soldat…”

“You,” she supplies. 

Truth be told, that thought hadn’t really occurred to you, but you take it in stride. “You know all their weaknesses. Even if you didn’t, you’d be able to find them, because you’re you. They’d never even see you coming.”

Natalia’s quiet for a beat… then two. Finally, she says, “Then perhaps all the more reason to bring along people who _can’t_ be leashed.”

“And risk us turning on them and killing them?”

“In the event that they do manage to turn us, Wanda would be able to warn the others beforehand. Depending on how deep the conditioning runs, she might be able to reverse it, too.”

“I will not gamble her life on a ‘maybe.’ I told her I didn’t want her going back to the Black Room—even in my head—and I meant it.”

“Don’t you think that’s her decision, not yours?” Natalia argues. “Once she knows where you’re going and what you’re trying to do, she’ll want to help.”

“Which is precisely why I’m not planning to tell her.”

Natalia raises her brows, giving you an incredulous look. “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. You understand how this works, right?” 

At her expectant look, you shake your head and heave a sigh. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“If you try and go this on your own, I’ll track you down. You know I can, and you know I will.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she steamrolls on. Evidently, she’s on something of a roll. 

“James will conclude we went to Russia, and then _he’ll_ chase _us_ down. We know he can, and we know he will. After everything, he’s still very much the Soldier, through and through. And can you guess who’ll be with him?”

You figure it’s a rhetorical question, so you maintain your silence. 

“Steve Rogers. Sam Wilson, too.” she provides. “Steve contributed to a mini civil war over James, ran headfirst into an all-out brawl with Tony in Siberia. Sam followed his lead, no matter where it took him—even to a high-security prison out in the middle of the Atlantic. You think Steve will let James go into another fight without him at his side? You think Sam will let _Steve_ go anywhere without him at his back?”

More rhetorical questions. You hold your peace.

“Next, Steve will give Tony a call, getting him—and likely Wanda—to join in on the fun. Sure, their relationship is far from repaired, but they’ll have two major things in common—one, me. Two, their profound dislike for injustice in any capacity—that which drove them both to go to great lengths in order to become the heroes they are today. I think we can both agree that the Black Room would fall squarely within the ‘unjust’ category.” 

You shoot her a glare, but she’s undeterred.

“Oh, and while all this is happening, Clint will have noticed my disappearance. He’ll be keeping a close eye on me, especially after that stunt I pulled getting you out of Russia.” 

She has a point there. Barton looked furious that Natalia had gone without telling him. 

“Like James, he’ll put two and two together—the fact that you left first and I followed shortly thereafter. He’ll deduce—and correctly so—that we’ve headed to Russia. He’ll suit up, call Tony, borrow a Quinjet and track me down. Depending on how quickly Clint gets his ass in gear, Steve won’t even have to call Tony to let him know what’s going down, because he and Wanda will already be well on their way with Clint in tow.”

“So frankly, it’s not a matter of ‘if’ we’re involving the team here. They’re going to be involved one way or another. And wouldn’t it just be a hell of a lot more efficient to loop them in from the start? You know, as opposed to us taking off and leaving the rest of them to play Telephone until everyone ends up in the same damn place anyhow?”

A beat of silence. 

“Are you done?” you ask eventually, not bothering to hide the irritation from your tone. 

“Depends.” Natalia feigns thoughtfulness for a moment. “Are you starting to see sense?”

You clench your jaw, take a deep breath… count to three. 

One, two… three. 

“We brief them before we leave,” you say finally, distaste underscoring every word. “If they wish to join, that’s up to them.”

Natalia grins. “Great. We’ll brief them this afternoon.”

_Fucking hell_. 

— —

Six hours later, you stand in Tony Stark’s penthouse once again, barefoot and less-than-enthused as a group of Avengers—this one bigger than the last—stares you down. 

Natalia sits on the arm of the single couch which currently accommodates Soldat, Rogers, and Sam Wilson. 

Codename: Falcon.

Designation: Unclear. Ally (?). Threat Assessment: Moderate.

He’s unarmed, which seems… counter-intuitive. 

Stark sits in one of two armchairs adjacent to either end of the couch, while Wanda sits in the other. Clint stands behind the sofa, arms crossed, a solemn expression on his lined features. 

Beside him, in an identical stance—Maria Hill. 

Codename: N/A.

Designation: Unclear. Ally (?). Threat Assessment: High.

At first glance, she appears unarmed. You look a little closer and clock at least three weapons—a handgun in her belt, another strapped to her ankle beneath a pair of jeans. A knife in her waistband. 

She used to have two, but you swiped one off her the moment you saw an opening. It’s currently tucked into the waistband of your joggers, the metal of its blade cool against your skin. 

“Wait a second,” Sam Wilson interjects before you can even really start. “You’re a kid. And… Why don’t you have shoes on?”

It takes everything within you not to roll your eyes. “Look, I’m only doing this because Natalia told me about how incorrigibly stubborn you all are about team unity, and having each other’s backs, or… whatever.”

Maria Hill raises a brow, glances down at Natalia and remarks, “Charming.”

“So, can everyone just please be quiet for five minutes while I explain what’s happening?”

A series of nods and vaguely acquiescent grunts all around. 

Wonderful.

“Like Natalia said, she found me in Iskitim at the Black Room Academy. It’s essentially a reproduction of the Red Rooms, which—” You pause to glance at Natalia, silently asking if she’s alright with you sharing her involvement in the program’s demise. 

She gives the barest hint of a nod.

“... Which Natalia destroyed before she fled,” you continue. “And I—” 

“Sorry, super quick interruption,” Stark jumps in. _Jesus Christ_. “Could you maybe do a quick SparkNotes version on exactly what the Black-Room-slash-Red-Room is, how it operates, and all that? Just so we all know we’re on the same page.”

You purse your lips, your patience rapidly wearing thin. “It’s not a good place,” you say shortly. 

Stark raises his brows, and you resist the urge to heave a sigh.

“They teach young girls to be assassins. They cuff you to the bed at night,” you say, yanking up your sleeve to show the bruising around your left wrist. You can’t help finding a morbid sense of satisfaction at the horrified looks you receive in return. 

“Before they send you out into the world, you must complete training. Much of that training involves learning to lure, seduce, and kill. The rest of it consists primarily of eliminating the other girls before they can eliminate you. The older someone is, chances are the more people they’ve killed.”

“If you don’t comply, you die. Everyone is replaceable. You learn that very early on. In the rare event that you’re not replaceable and yet they still require compliance, you get sent to the chair.” Wanda visibly tenses at that, but you force yourself to continue. “The chair takes memories, jumbles them up in your head. After that, getting you to comply is easy.”

Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers begin to look a little queasy. Wanda, as well. Natalia’s expression is carefully blank—a testament to her self-restraint. Soldat looks downright murderous. 

“Then, when you’ve trained enough and killed enough to prove your mettle, you start on missions. You get to go out into the world and kill strangers instead of your classmates.” You slant a glance towards Stark, who at least has the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “There’s your Black Room crash course.”

“Natalia found the one in Iskitim by tracking me. I consistently rebelled against my programming, left a trail that led right back to the Academy. But I know there are more. I’m going to find them. I’m going to destroy them, or die trying.” You pause, allowing yourself a noiseless sigh. “Natalia insists she’ll track me down and forcibly join me if I try going it alone. And, from what I can understand, that will cause something of a domino effect amongst the rest of you.”

Judging by the determined looks hardening on everyone’s faces, that’s exactly what’s happening right now. 

“However, I firmly believe that it would be a terrible idea for any of you to go. Natalia and Soldat— _James_ —especially. While his trigger words may have been removed in Wakanda, I’d be remiss to assume that they only ever had one means of controlling him.” 

At the mention of Wakanda, Steve Rogers’ expression goes from contemplative to stunned. Sam Wilson’s is markedly worse. You mentally add them to the list of people who need to work on their tells. 

“The same goes for Natalia. If Natalia is turned, she could kill all of you. She knows your weakness, and even if she didn’t, it would be a moot point anyhow, because she’s just that good. You would be dead before any of you knew what was happening.” You shove your hands in the pockets of your joggers, unease crawling beneath your skin. You hate feeling so exposed. “I don’t want to give them another go at Natalia or Sold— _James_. I also don’t want to watch them slaughter the rest of you.”

Finally, you turn to Natalia. “Did I cover everything?”

Natalia rolls her eyes. “You missed the part where your plan would either get you killed, re-inducted into the Black Room, or worse.”

“I have contingencies in place.”

“Care to expand on that?”

You sigh. “An L-pill.”

Natalia’s expression goes cold. “No.”

“Absolutely not,” Sol— _James_ echoes firmly.

“Out of the question, kid,” Barton declares, his tone flat and hard. 

“That’s a nuclear option, Y/N,” Maria Hill adds, words saturated with reproof. 

“Hold up. Time-out,” Sam Wilson interjects, making a ‘T’ with his hands. “What the hell’s an L-pill?”

Natalia’s still glaring at you as she says, “A pill of cyanide.”

“The term was coined in World War II by the British and American secret services,” Maria Hill supplies. “It was given to agents going across enemy lines.”

Steve Rogers’ eyes widen, horrified realization flaring in his gaze. “The kind that captured soldiers would use to commit suicide before the enemy could torture anything out of them.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“ _What_ ?!” Wanda sounds almost affronted. 

“Yeah, quick question, Little Red: Have you lost your entire damn mind?”

You turn from an intense glaring match with Natalia to face Stark. “I will not allow myself to be used as a weapon against any of you. I told you I would burn what was left of the Black Room or die trying, and I meant it.”

Silence for a downbeat. Then two. 

“We’re coming with you,” Steve Rogers declares, stubborn conviction rolling off of him in waves. 

Stark nods. “What Capsicle said.”

You survey your audience, gauging their responses. 

They’re all staring back at you with that same determined, idealistic, _stupidly_ heroic look on their faces. You feel like screaming. 

“Did you just all collectively not hear the part where I said they might be able to turn Natalia, James, and I? You know, which could very possibly end in the three of us slaughtering _all_ of you?”

“Yeah, no, we heard that,” Barton assures you. “We just don’t care.”

“It’ll be fun,” Stark adds with a shrug. “Like a… team field trip.”

Murmurs of agreement all around. 

“You’re all going to get yourselves killed,” you tell them. 

Stark tilts his head, examining you for a long moment. “Are you always this cheery and optimistic, or did we just catch you on an off day?”

You promptly give him the middle finger, making Sam Wilson laugh aloud and Barton stifle a snicker. 

When you spare Natalia a glance, she’s giving you her trademark death stare—the one that says _‘We’re going to talk about this later, at length.’_

This time, you don’t stop yourself from heaving a long sigh. 

— —

“Okay, so let’s start narrowing down locations,” Tony Stark says, rolling out a large, see-through evidence board just opposite the lone couch. Next, he peels open a four-pack of EXPO markers, grabs the red one, leaves the rest on the coffee table—up for grabs.

Everyone insists on staying for the little impromptu powwow—Wanda included.

It’s a bit… crowded. Then again, no one looks to be budging here, so you figure it isn’t worth the quarrel. 

“So, Red said you had a potential for us?” Stark asks, pointing your way with his marker. 

You nod. “Voronezh.” Tony starts writing it on the board in big, messy print. “V-O-R-O-N-E-Z-H,” you spell it out for him. “Unconfirmed.”

“What made you deduce it as a potential locale?” Rogers asks. 

Everyone turns their gaze to you. 

“A memory,” you answer concisely.

A downbeat. 

“Care to expand on that, Little Red?”

You don’t turn to glare at Stark, though it’s not for lack of wanting. “I remember seeing.... Petrovsky Park. A bronze statue. Someone said his name was… Peter?”

“Peter the Great,” Natalia supplies. “Former emperor of Russia.”

“I was sent there to, um…” You trail off, wanting for the word. “Calibrate” —yes, that sounds right— “the chair? I think?” 

James’ gaze snaps up to yours. “Calibrate it?”

You nod, even as you can’t help feeling there was more to it. “Iskitim had the blueprint—the original chair. It was one of the only things they’d managed to salvage from the Red Room before it burned.” 

“The scientist who fashioned the chair was dead; the journals he left behind, burned. Everywhere else, they had to start from scratch. All their test subjects either died or went mad… But I’d been in the chair before. I’d managed to survive,” you say with a shrug, speaking primarily to Soldat. “You were on ice, Natalia was gone…”

“So they sent you,” Maria Hill sums up.

Silence.

Eventually, Wanda whispers, “You could have died.” She sounds… haunted. 

You meet her gaze, attempt a smile. “I didn’t,” you remind her gently. 

“Okay, so, what can we do to narrow this down?” Stark inquires. 

“Cross-reference satellite images,” Natalia offers. “We’d be looking for a dormitory-esque building… an orphanage, even. Many of the Red Rooms posed as shelters for wayward children.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Stark prompts, scribbling the words ‘dorm / orphanage’ onto the board.

“On it, Boss.”

“That’s too broad,” Soldat says. 

He’s right. 

A flicker of memory in your mind’s eye—white men in lab coats, the stench of antiseptic… a tray of vials filled with translucent blue liquid. “Roxxon Corporation.”

Stark whirls around, looking alarmed. “What’s that now?”

“Roxxon… the men with the serum,” you say slowly as you begin to pace, your thoughts racing. 

“Erskine’s serum?” Rogers says, looking equally alarmed. 

You ignore him. “They were moving vials filled with blue liquid—the serum. They had ‘Roxxon’ stitched into their lab coats…” You trail off, trying to connect the dots in your head. Everything’s just so… scrambled. “The first I heard of Roxxon was when I was looking into Cybertek… ”

“Cybertek?” Wanda asks. 

You spare her a brief glance. “A technology company, recently dissolved. Ties to HYDRA. They developed a program in the 90s that would eventually become the Centipede Project.”

“Project Deathlok,” Hill offers. 

You nod. 

Sam Wilson raises a hand. “Is anyone else, like, completely lost right now?”

“The Centipede Project was an attempt at recreating Erskine’s super-soldier serum,” Barton offers. “Tash and I crossed paths with them on a couple ops.”

“One of them broke Clint’s clavicle,” Natalia offers, her voice tinged with amusement. 

Barton gives her the middle finger, which makes her smirk. Then, he turns back to Wilson. “Point is, it’s bad news. All the subjects were seriously unstable.”

“As a result of the serum or just in general?” Stark asks. 

“Unclear,” Natalia replies. 

“Well, they exploded,” you say, quitting your pacing for the moment. “So I think it’s safe to say it was very likely the serum.” A slight untruth. It was _definitely_ the serum. You examined it yourself. 

Stark’s left eye twitches. “They exploded? That sounds like…”

“Extremis,” you finish for him. “Yes. That was one of the primary components in the original Centipede serum.”

Stark frowns, visibly troubled. “That’s… insane.”

You shrug, continuing to pace. “They managed to stabilize it later on. Point is, if I’m remembering correctly—and that’s a big ‘if’—Roxxon distributed the serum in Voronezh. There _has_ to be some record of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Barton interjects. “You said the serum was blue. The Centipede serum was orange.”

“Centipede died with John Garrett,” Hill says decisively. 

Wilson shakes his head. “Who the hell is that?”

“Project leader,” Natalia supplies. “Asshole.”

“I don’t know what the serum was,” you say. “All I know is that it was blue. It’s always been blue.” You turn to Natalia and James for confirmation. 

“I can’t remember,” she admits, words tinged with the barest hint of dissatisfaction. 

James just shrugs. 

“Was it labelled?” Hill asks, an unreadable look in her eye. 

“Would that make a difference?”

Hill’s lips twitch in annoyance. “Let’s assume yes.”

You eye her for a long moment, then nod. “Yes. G-H… something.”

Recognition flickers in Hill’s gaze—here one second, gone the next. She slips a phone from her pocket (one of three you’ve counted on her person), slanting a brief glance over to Natalia. “I need to make a call,” she says to no one in particular.

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves. 

“Wh—Are you coming back?” Stark calls after her. 

Hill doesn’t provide an answer. A moment later, the elevator doors shut, obscuring her from view. 

“The hell was that about?” Wilson questions after a beat of silence. 

Wanda sits motionless, still staring after the elevator doors long after they’ve closed, brow furrowed in concentration. Eventually, she says, “Maria’s going to call Fury. Something about… a guest house?”

All at once, Natalia’s expression shifts. “Tony?” she says. You can practically _see_ the gears turning in her head. 

“Yeah?”

“We’re gonna need to hack S.H.I.E.L.D.”

— —

“So, we’re looking for… a guest house?” Stark asks. He’s settled side-by-side with Natalia on the couch, both typing furiously on two separate laptops. 

You’ve taken residence on the floor with a tablet in your lap, running through all the newly-digitized intel Stark recovered from Iskitim. For a tech genius, his digital security needs work. All the while, you keep an ear out for Natalia and Stark—tracking their conversation and progress. 

“Not _a_ guest house,” Natalia corrects. “ _The_ Guest House.”

“Which is…”

“A top-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. I went there, I think, but it’s… fuzzy. I don’t remember.”

_That_ snags your attention even as you continue scrolling through a wealth of digital records—training, mission reports, injury documentation. 

“What do you mean you ‘don’t remember’?”

“I mean I have bits and pieces—snapshots. But I don’t remember going there, and I hardly remember leaving.”

Alarm bells go off in your head. Bits and pieces… snapshots. Just like all your scattered recollections. Did they have a chair in the Guest House?

“How is that possible?”

“My memory’s full of holes, Tony. I don’t know what to tell you.”

A heavy sigh. Then— “Okay, here, you see this? A preliminary investigation of black ops facilities. We’ve got… exactly one mention of this ‘Guest House.’”

“What? Let me see that.” Muttering under her breath as Natalia scans through the report. “Coventry… Shangri-La… Guest House.”

“‘Redacted Level 6,’” Stark reads. “We need someone with clearance level 6 or above.”

A digitized report on the tablet catches your eye—labeled ‘Angel,’ dated one month previous. You recognize Madame’s loopy signature on page two. 

“Use mine.”

A beat of silence, then: “Access denied.”

“What?”

“Technically, you’re not S.H.I.E.L.D. any longer,” Stark reasons.

“Fine,” Natalia grumbles. More fast typing sounds. “We’ll do this the hard way.”

It’ll take her maybe an hour or two to circumvent S.H.I.E.L.D.’s censorship, by your estimates.

You turn your focus back to the report. United States… Westchester County, New York. You were in America? You don’t remember that. 

A series of photos… You. A blonde woman. Faces hidden by shadows. Guns drawn, fighting.

Identically dressed. Her name… redacted. 

The report is less than flattering. Evidently, you went off-book. Again. 

Intensive re-programming was mandatory, in your handler’s opinion. Madame concurred. 

Ice slithers down your spine. 

You can’t remember _any_ of this. 

Who is the blonde woman? Why were you there?

Why were you fighting?

Did you kill her?

Too many questions, not enough answers. 

“You okay?” Wanda asks as she sits herself next to you on the floor. She doesn’t look down to the tablet in your hands, and for some entirely inexplicable reason, you don’t feel the need to hide it from her.

Curious. You file that away for later to be examined, at length.

You nod slowly, biting your lip. “Looking through… the files they found in Iskitim, where Natalia found me,” you explain, pitching your voice low such that Natalia won’t hear you. 

She can’t afford to be distracted right now. 

Wanda nods, brow creased in worry. “And you don’t like what you’re finding?”

“It’s not that, it’s…” You stare back down at the photo displayed on the screen—the blonde woman holding you in a headlock, the flicker of a blade in your hands. A wall of brick at your back, various crates stacked one atop the other in the bottom-right corner of the shot. You’re desperate to make sense of it. 

“I can’t remember it,” you admit with a quiet sigh, pursing your lips in annoyance. “I can’t remember it, and it was a _month_ ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Wanda tells you gently. “That must be frustrating.”

“Yeah.” You shake your head, willing the turmoil in your head to abate. Then, you turn to her. 

She’s watching you with this open, impossibly tender expression that reminds you of your first meeting—your first _true_ meeting, here in this very penthouse. 

It steals the very breath from your lungs, and it’s something like a miracle to hear yourself say something coherent: “I’m sorry about earlier.”

A crease forms between her brows. “What do you mean?”

“The cyanide pill… You sounded upset.”

Recognition flits across Wanda’s gaze, followed quickly by something like pain, pure and raw. You ache to soothe it. 

“I was upset; you’re right.” She looks down at her hands, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “I just… I know we met fairly recently, and perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want you to die. I… I want to know more about you.” 

The sheer measure of emotion in her words, plain as they may be, feels like a brand upon your skin. 

You blink—once, twice. Your eyes burn. “It’s not selfish,” you tell her. You aren’t sure that that’s strictly true, but in the moment, you can’t find a reason to dispute it. “I want to know more about you, too.”

A simple confession, in the grand scheme of things… and yet, to you, it feels momentous. 

She looks up at you, unabashed wonder in her eyes—as if she can sense what it took for you to say that aloud. 

“Yeah?” she asks timidly. 

You swallow thickly, force yourself not to look away from her awe-struck gaze when you say, “Yeah.”

— —

At the two-hour mark, you ask Natalia about going out on the street for a walk—something to clear your head. She briefly pauses her work to hand you a loaded pistol and order you to come right back—20 minutes max—before diving back in. 

You acquiesce with a slight eye roll. 

She’s still working her way through miles of encryption with a mind of its own, one that re-develops its own code on the fly even as she works full-speed against it. 

It’s… impressive. You wonder who’s responsible for the upgrade. The last time you hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D., it took you twenty minutes using the free Wi-Fi of a crappy hotel in Bremen. 

You’ll have to look into it later. 

No one tries to stop you from going, nor do they offer to tag along. You’re glad for that.

Stark thrusts a pair of… rubbery slippers at you on your way out. They’re white, peppered with holes. 

Evidently, they’re called ‘Crocs.’ He’d initially bought them as a gift for Pepper (the current CEO of Stark Industries, and his long-time girlfriend), but she refused to wear them. 

You don’t blame her. They’re absolutely hideous. 

Still, they’re better than the alternative, which is going barefoot on the streets of New York. You accept them after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Good afternoon, Y/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets you when you step into the elevator. “Where to?”

“Good afternoon, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” you answer in kind, setting the ‘Crocs’ side-by-side on the ground and cautiously stepping into them. “Ground floor, please.”

They’re clunky, but not uncomfortable. Pepper must have small feet, because they fit you rather well. 

The grip on the soles is almost nonexistent. Should you come across trouble and require a quick escape, they’ll have to be the first things to go. 

Security meets you on the ground floor. You make your eyes big and innocent, your gait timid and unhurried. When you’re close enough, you pretend to stumble, and let one of them steady you even as you stammer out your sincerest apologies. 

You walk away with a brand-new pack of smokes tucked into the pocket of your joggers, Natalia’s pistol and Maria Hill’s knife in your waistband. 

The moment you’re outside, your senses are assaulted on all sides. Car horns, yelling, a police siren from at least a couple blocks down. 

A burnt-orange light from above; the combined scents of smoke and urine and fried food invading your nostrils. 

You clutch your weapons and the pack of smokes tightly to your body as three harried people stride past you in quick succession. The last one damn near shoulder-checks you in the face. 

Items secured, you start to move with the crowd for a couple hundred feet. Tens of different conversations (many of which aren’t happening in English) assault your ears as you pass a jewelry shop, a bank, and a FedEx—one right after the other. 

You finally stop when you spot a lanky teen lighting up on the street corner, the air around him heavy with the familiar scent of weed. He’s got a beanie cap on his tousled brown hair, and red-rimmed eyes that tell you he’s smoked enough to make things blur together. 

You wriggle a cigarette from the pack of smokes, approaching him with a shy grin. 

“Got a light?”

“Sure,” he drawls, brandishing a pink plastic lighter. His eyes are lazy upon you as you lean in, letting him light you up. 

You take a long hit, letting smoke and hot air fill your lungs. It burns, but you don’t mind. 

“Cheers,” you tell him, your voice slightly hoarse as you post yourself up beside him. 

He gives a belated nod, thin lips forming an easy lopsided grin. “No problem, dude.”

You lapse into silence, a chill in the air and too much on your mind. 

He doesn’t try to talk to you. You’re appreciative of that.

You lift your chin to exhale a long column of smoke into the open air, relishing in the way it burns your airway.

It’s been a while since you smoked, you think. The ease with which you take another pull, this one notably longer than the first, tells you it hasn’t been that long at all. 

Maybe a couple weeks, then. 

Fuck Madame and Karpov and their stupid chair. 

Another exhale, another drag. 

You dislike being so exposed. Too many people, sightlines everywhere. You keep your head on a swivel, making note of any abnormalities, along with anything you see that’s just a little _too_ normal. 

Exhale. Drag. 

You won’t stay out here for long. Too much to keep track of. 

Still, it’s nice, for the moment. 

You should know better than anyone by now that nice things never last. Especially not for you. 

A prickle of unease along the base of your spine is all the warning you get before there’s a whistling sound in the air, and the boy who’d lit you up promptly collapses onto the pavement. A quick glance at the body shows a neat hole between his brows, oozing blood. 

No one stops. No one seems to even notice. It is New York, after all.

Biting back a curse, you toss the cigarette, but snatch up the pink lighter from the guy’s open palm and shove it in your pocket. It might come in handy later. 

In a split second, you’ve calculated the angle, estimated that the bullet came from somewhere high up, across the street. 

You latch onto a broad-shouldered businessman speed-walking past with the misfortune of being much taller than you at something like 6’3” and match his brisk pace. You shield yourself behind him until you find another person with the stature to obscure you from view. 

You move with the crowd—rapid-pace one moment, sluggish the next. No more shots. 

You take a sharp right turn on the next corner. Less crowded, but it’ll connect you to another main street a couple hundred feet down. If you make that, chances are you can lose whoever’s tailing you. 

You walk in front of a tall bearded man in sagging jeans and a baseball cap. Then, you purposely slow yourself down such that his large figure covers yours from behind. 

He’s got a Glock in his waistband, and the way he’s swearing under his breath indicates he’s less than pleased with the way you’re forcing him to walk on your heels. You hardly mind it. You’ll take him over a bullet any day.

Still, you’re not terribly keen to be endangering him any longer than necessary. 

So, you walk with him for a few more paces, easily shifting into his path every time he tries to go around you, then duck off behind a dumpster the moment you get the chance. 

He shoots you a death glare over his shoulder as you crouch down against the metal. 

You return it with a vaguely apologetic grin. 

He shrugs it off and keeps walking.

No whistling in the air. No bodies. 

You take out the gun Natalia gave you, check that the safety’s off before cocking it back.

A woman in her early thirties passes by in a worker’s uniform, stops, turns to look you up and down. On instinct, you hide the gun while simultaneously giving her a quick once-over. 

She’s unarmed. 

“Are you Angel?” she asks with a slight accent… Queens, probably. There’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers, an impatient crease in her brow. Everything about her screams average. 

You eye her for a long moment, then nod. “Yes.” 

“Some guy wanted me to give this to you,” she says, holding out a flip phone. 

It’s not hers, judging by the Samsung she’s got tucked into her jeans pocket.

After a moment’s hesitation, you nod, accepting the phone. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” she says, looking you up and down once more. “Buck up, kid. Don’t look so glum… And maybe stop hanging around dumpsters, while you’re at it.” 

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves. 

You don’t jump as the phone starts buzzing in your hand.

You look to the burnt-orange sky up above, the stench of days-old garbage filling your nostrils. 

“Fuck me,” you grumble aloud. Flipping open the phone with a steady hand, you put it to your ear. “Hello?”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> **some links below for things/people mentioned in this chapter in case you're curious, need a refresher, or want to know what/who to visualize:**
> 
> [chuzhoi](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Chuzhoi) | a russian mercenary who crosses paths with natasha. appears in the comics.
> 
> [john garrett](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/John_Garrett) | leader of the centipede project, and also the first recipient of a variant of the super soldier serum under [project deathlok](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Project_Deathlok). affiliate of HYDRA. appears in _marvel's agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_. 
> 
> the [centipede project](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Centipede_Project) | an attempt at recreating the [super soldier serum](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Super_Soldier_Serum) administered to steve rogers by scientist [abraham erskine](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Abraham_Erskine). appears in _marvel's agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_.
> 
> [extremis](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Extremis) | an advanced nanotechnology created by [aldrich killian](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Aldrich_Killian) and [maya hansen](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Maya_Hansen). it gives the human body the ability to heal itself from physical and even psychological damages. appears in _iron man 3_ and briefly in _marvel's agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_.
> 
> the [guest house](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Guest_House) | a top-secret storage facility. location: classified. became a secret research center for [project T.A.H.I.T.I.](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Project_T.A.H.I.T.I.) appears in _marvel's agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_. now destroyed.
> 
> — —
> 
> first: i do NOT condone smoking. my older brother smokes cigs, and i have an on-and-off e-cig habit. this is not meant to glorify that, because believe me, shit's expensive and it fucks up your lungs
> 
> also i've only ever seen, like, two episodes of doctor who. i thoroughly enjoyed them, though
> 
> again, left it open-ended for a possible (read: probable) continuation that i'd like to start within the next few days.. absolutely no guarantees on when that'll be done, though
> 
> also i'm shit at answering comments (something i'm working on) but if you've commented on this series at all, i want you to know i am in Love with you and you're 99% of the reason i've written more than just the one part, which is all i was originally planning to do. so thank you... the kind words mean a lot more than you know <3


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